


Only You (And You Alone)

by ventiskull



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Barebacking, Bottom Gabriel, Canon-Typical Violence and Gore, Christmas, Gabriel's POV, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Top Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21725953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventiskull/pseuds/ventiskull
Summary: Five times Gabriel and Jack spend Christmas together, plus one time where things go a little more differently.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80
Collections: Reaper76 Free For All Secret Santa 2019





	1. Basic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maderi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderi/gifts).



> A Reaper76 Christmas fic for [maderi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderi) for the Reaper76 Secret Santa 2019 Event! I’m not a very good writer but I did put all of my heart into this and I do hope it’s at least some semblance of what you asked for.

Gabriel thinks he might be in love with Jack.

_Might_ being the keyword here—it was certainly possible that he’d never had a friend as good as the one he had in Jack (he _didn’t_ ), and that he was confusing those profound feelings of friendship with romantic love. One thing was for sure, though—here Gabriel was, with roughly 2/3 of his body covered in bandages and some or other form of cast-and-plaster, and another 3/4 of his limbs immovable—but he wasn’t too bothered about that (he’ll heal, in time) but only because it was Jack on the bed right next to his, in roughly the same shoddy, bandaged-nightmare of a condition that he was.

It was their first Christmas eve together—two in-patients with the combined mobility of a car with three of its tires shot and the brakes cut, and two IV bags and catheters between them because they were in such horrible conditions they couldn’t go home for the holidays and the military sure as shit wasn’t going to let their families visit. How romantic.

Jack has been talking his ear off with whatever subject popped into that blonde head of his, Gabriel listening quietly as the doctors had just taken the wires out of his re-fixed jaw and he wasn’t so keen on talking too much as of yet. Jack doesn’t need to check that Gabriel was paying attention; he knows that about Gabriel—that he liked listening to him and that having some talking in the background was a relief in the otherwise deathly quiet of the military infirmary they were both stuck in.

Except maybe this time it might have been prudent on Jack’s part to check because Gabriel was only listening to about 40% of everything that came out of Jack’s mouth _(something, something, farm, eggnog, Indiana, fried chicken, something, something)_ as he tries desperately to rein in the thoughts he was suddenly having.

_I’ll heal now, but what if I don’t next time?_

_I should tell him._

_Maybe not_ that, _but_ something—

“Morrison—” the name was out of his mouth before Gabriel could even consider what he was going to say next. Jack goes quiet immediately— _what was he saying before?_ Gabriel doesn’t remember what he said last, _how long had Jack been quiet_ —

“Morrison.” He says it again. No response. Despite the crick in his muscles Gabriel turns his head around to look at Jack, only to see him with his eyes closed, one cheek squished against his pillow and mouth open at an objectively _severely unattractive_ angle as drool drips from the corner of his lips and progressively darkens a spot on the pillowcase.

Gabriel snorts to himself, only shaking his head in spirit given his current condition. He looks again at Jack—pathetic in all the glory that could be had when he was passed out slobbering in his hospital gown, his unruly blond hair _even more_ unruly than usual—his one leg comically raised up by a sling bolted to the ceiling and the rest of him wrapped in bandages and his battered body barely held together by stitches and splints. Something tightens in Gabriel’s chest then.

He turns his head minutely to look at the clock by the door—12:07 am.

_Merry Christmas, Jack._

He’ll tell him ‘ _Merry Christmas’_ in the morning, but it’s all he’ll say.


	2. SEP

The brass had been, at the very least, generous in letting the cadets have their Last Holiday just before they—rather, _he,_ Gabriel—had to be tossed in the null void that was the Soldier Enhancement Program ( a government sector which, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist) should he choose to enlist, a deadline that was looming closer and closer over his head. Gabriel was grateful for the time, with all the disclaimers he had to read through, all the consent forms and NDAs and other varieties of bureaucratic paperwork he’d had to work through and consider—he _knew_ it was the real deal, and the way he knew government secrecy worked it would be likely that if he joined, he wasn’t going to get any breaks where he got to integrate with good ol’ civilian life and society until he was out of the program—either in a body bag or as a true-blue certified super soldier, whichever came first. Gabriel would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least somewhat scared shitless, but it was a choice he’d be making _not_ without great thought and consideration, especially when he was informed that he was one of the elite few specifically hand-picked to participate in the program and reap its benefits.

Of course, it was a sweet bonus that Jack was coming with him to the program.

It hadn’t come as surprise to Gabriel—after all, he and Jack were neck-to-neck on the top spot among all the recruits, so it was only natural to assume that if he’d gotten an invite, then Jack would have gotten one too.

It was Christmas Eve then, their last official day in basic, and they were just about to be shipped back to a more populated part of the country and away from the secluded base, where they could then each go their own ways and do whatever it is they decided they were going to do after completing basic training. And call time was, of course, midnight, smack dab on _Christmas_ because of course the military doesn’t give a shit about conventional time standards.

“You got an invite to the Soldier Enhancement Program?” He asks Jack anyway, even though Gabriel knows the answer and knows the both of them have been conveniently avoided having this exact conversation—he asks anyway, just to open up the topic. He and Jack mechanically work around each other inside their shared room, packing away what sparse belongings they had, making the bed and smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheets with military precision. They were both set to be shipped out that night. He could have brought it up earlier, but Gabriel had spent the better part of three months making up his mind on whether he was going to take it up or not and he hadn’t wanted anything else but _him_ and what _he_ thought influencing that decision. Part of him considers it’s because he wasn’t ready for what future it would entail if he found out that Jack had opted not to join the program. Neither of them had begun saying their goodbyes.

Jack has only just finished putting away his things, he slings his duffel bag over one shoulder and his entire frame goes stock-still. He doesn’t turn to look at Gabriel when he answers.

“Yeah. I’m taking them up on the offer.” Jack responds curtly, his voice strained and just a little clipped in a manner that Gabriel recognizes is a voice Jack only uses when he’s being formal, guarded, the way he does when he talks to his C.O. after a fuck-up.

Contrary to popular belief, Golden Boy John Francis Morrison—charismatic, prim and proper like the ideal gentleman, a certified _ass-kisser_ —was a carefully crafted persona of Jack that he pulled in and out of his pocket like a glove whenever he had to use it—which was most of the time, as Jack was too smart for his own good—because ass-kissing and _“winning the respect”_ of your peers was the only way you ever got anywhere in the military, and Jack obviously wanted to go _places._ Gabriel knew he was a different man behind the closed door labeled 24/76 that they shared. _His_ Jack was just as charming, but likely for different reasons from what popular answers constituted of. _His_ Jack had a foul mouth and had a grating, dry and biting kind of sarcastic humor—the kind that could easily get him socked on the jaw by several people all at once if he suddenly forgot to filter his brain from his mouth. This Jack was cranky and hated having to speak to more than two people in a day, hated waking up before afternoon and especially hated how he had to shave nearly every goddamn morning just to keep the persistent stubble off of his unnaturally square jaw. This Jack liked to sneak out with Gabriel and share cigarettes, this Jack enjoyed nothing as much as he enjoyed watching shitty B-movies specifically for the sheer delight he found in talking smack about them, and he was the human equivalent of a human biodegradable waste bin because he could eat a lot and he could eat _anything_. This Jack was kind of an asshole, but the kind that was _exactly_ Gabriel’s kind—the one he got along with whether it was in a combat team or outside of it, could laugh along with, who was kind of a stone-cold dick but was fiercely—loyally, almost to a fault—protective of his friends if you managed to deal with his bullshit long enough to chip away at his coarse exterior and into his more accommodating, softer and warmer interior.

A whole minute passes between them. Silence. Gabriel’s hands still when he ties the draw-strings of his bag to a close.

“Yeah? Well, shit, me too.” It was only half a lie—Gabriel was at a dead stand-still at 50/50 on his decision—but now that he knows Jack’s apparently unwavering conviction to join the SEP his brain had reflexively (did that minute of silence count?), careful ruminations be damned, cranked the dial from 50% to a whopping 100%. He tended to do that where Jack was concerned. It was a pattern at this point.

Jack whips his head back to look back at him so fast the movement almost catches Gabriel off-guard as Jack had been still as a statue only moments before. His expression remains carefully blank as he stares at Gabriel, his face every bit the generic Ken-doll factory reproduction it was save for a band-aid stuck to the bridge of his nose and another on his cheek and the five o’clock shadow that frames the hard edges of his cheeks.

“Yeah?” Jack asks then after a split-second of quietness, almost _stupidly_ being the only way Gabriel knew how to describe the way he’d phrased that one-word question. Jack flashes him that dopey, lop-sided grin he only ever got to see on exceedingly rare occasions, all of which were situations wildly differing from the other. That smile was erratic, unpredictable—rarer than a giant squid sighting at best, mythical at the worst. And when Jack smiles at him like that Gabriel knows it’s all over for him.

Gabriel thinks about all the things that had held him back from immediately saying yes and jumping head-first at the SEP offer—a wife, a husband maybe, two or three kids, a Labrador retriever, a two-story house with a garden where he could bring his mother and his grandmother and his sisters for Sunday cook-outs. Malls. Fishing vacations. Baptisms. Going to bed at 10 pm every day and getting a full eight hours. Scrambled eggs in the morning. Peaceful. Domestic. He could do that.

That stupid grin of his is still stuck on Jack’s face, only now half of the band-aid on his nose has come loose and it flaps pathetically over his face—unbeknownst to Jack—and it makes him look _even stupider_ and Gabriel knows without question that he’d give up his white picket fence dream for this.

He’s a fucking _idiot_.

Gabriel laughs. He quickly strides the short distance between him and Jack, roughly pressing down on the loose end of the band-aid with the pad of his thumb and sticking it back into place. Jack visibly flinches at the sharp pain and reflexively jerks his head away. Gabriel laughs again.

Their wristwatches go off at the same time—three short, loud beeps. Midnight. Gabriel races Jack to it first.

“Merry Christmas, Jackie. Come on, it’s time to go.” Gabriel moves for the door, acutely aware that Jack wasn’t following him. He looks back at Jack, standing still right where he left him.

“You’re really joining?” Jack says, it almost sounds hollow, like he still couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Jack knows about the white picket fence dream. Gabriel pointedly does not dwell on the implications.

“I already told you _yes,_ shitbag, now _let’s go._ ” He gestures his head for emphasis.

For the second time that night Jack grins. A true Christmas miracle indeed.

As if only just remembering he had a dropship to go to, Jack stuffs his belongings under his arm and follows Gabriel out the door. Neither of them looks back at the faded 24/76 plate on the door.

“Best Christmas gift ever.” Jack says in that dead-pan way that he does, but Gabriel knows him well enough to know there’s more feeling to the words than he’s willing to let on. Jack slings one arm over Gabriel’s shoulder and they trudge along the hallway, awkwardly with the way their arms were hanging off each other’s shoulders and their belongings hanging and swinging between them.

_Best Christmas gift ever._


	3. Graduation

Friends will say _“we’ve been through a lot to get to where we are now”_ , but not a lot of friends can say they’ve been through the same “a lot” that Gabriel and Jack had to endure in the time they spent in the SEP.

Most people didn’t live in cold fear and constant anxiety that their best friend was going to die in their arms.

That was every day for Gabriel and Jack.

It was all pretty much in the papers and the both of them would have said they were prepared for the worst—but apparently neither man had the capacity to imagine the kind of horrors they were going to be put through in the SEP. They had no clue what _the worst_ was like.

The government had no plans to shoot the crap with the recruits and they were pumped with strange chemicals since day 1—side-effects ranged from skull-splitting migraines, burning fevers and cold turkeys to vomiting, loose bowels, and spontaneous bleeding—all of those all at once, usually. Coupled with rigorous, relentless physical training it was enough to break any soldier physically, mentally, emotionally—and breaking many soldiers was exactly what the SEP did.

Hardened soldiers _begged_ to be let out of the program, and body bags were carted out of the facility every week by the multiples, Gabriel often wonders when he’ll be next—and while he sits on the floor, veins on fire with Jack’s head cradled on his lap while he curls up on himself as he curls in on himself, body ice-cold and shivering, blood flowing out of his nostrils, Gabriel often wonders when _Jack_ will be next.

Despite his deeply Catholic upbringing, Gabriel hadn’t been religious in years—but seeing Jack pushed to the brink of death like that so often had made him pray in a way not even his grandmother could in his childhood and teenage years as a sacristan and choir boy and his perfect attendance mass and novena attendance— _my life for his, please just let him live through this._

He thinks of all the things he’s left unsaid.

 _Not like this, not like this._ He’s come close to saying it many times, with Jack dying (technically dead for three whole minutes, one time) in his arms, but he finds himself unable to pull the words out and he feels his heart freeze in his chest every _goddamn time,_ and it’s not whatever the fuck the shitbags at the SEP were pumping him full with.

_Not like this, not like this._

And by some miracle, the both of them actually live through it—far, far stronger after it, even, the perfect result of a deeply flawed experiment—against the odds, one hundred strong cadets, down to a mere _fifteen_ graduates.

~

It is graduation day for Jack and Gabriel. 

Gabriel shivers at the chill seeping into his bones—he wears his complete formal military outfit, a beret, the rest of the ensemble thick but not enough to keep the cold December air at bay as they stand in attention ( _outdoors, for fuck’s sake)_ listening to some hot-shot with medals on his chest enough to look, well, _pretty fucking stupid, actually._

Gabriel barely pays attention, the temperature and the monotonous, deep drawl of the man making him sleepy and so most of his attention goes to forcing himself _not_ to fall asleep where he stands.

It’s hardly the attitude of someone who is about to go on stage and receive recognition for making the top scores in a highly elite, insanely difficult government soldier program.

Gabriel couldn’t care less. He’s been through enough to care much about decorations and shaking hands with so and so—besides, it was December the 23rd—they could have done this literally some other week. Just another bullshit instance of the government ignoring conventional holidays for no good goddamn reason. Right now, he’d rather stick his hands on a cup of hot chocolate. Preferably with little marshmallows floating on top. He saves the idea for later.

He shifts his eyes sideward and chances a look at the _other_ top scorer in the SEP—none other than Jack Morrison himself, and Gabriel resents that he has to rove his eyeballs just a little bit higher to look at Jack in the eyes as whatever chemicals were loaded into his system had done wonders for his height. Gabriel is heavier, built harder and thicker, but Jack is taller than Gabriel by a few inches now, and Gabriel absolutely _abhors_ having Jack look at him from beneath the full fucking fan of his thick blonde lashes. A grave _insult_ to his person.

As if on cue, Jack glances back at him—just another look into the strange, wordless and instinctive communication he and Jack seemed to have developed throughout the years and training simulations. Useful, yet Gabriel finds it still a little unnerving and also somewhat uncomfortably close to _intimate_.

Jack jerks his chin forward minutely, a gesture barely there but one Gabriel sees because he knows to look for it. His cue to go up in front with Jack to receive their recognitions.

He goes up the stage with Jack side by side. Hands are shaken and medals given—and Jack goes on to the podium to deliver a “number one cadet” speech because Gabriel had suggested that Jack was far better than he was at speaking (which is true, and a particularly favorable thing to Gabriel as he hated public speaking), to which the brass had wholeheartedly agreed with the suggestion. Jack’s charisma was undeniable.

Gabriel walks off to the side as Jack delivers his speech, back straight, chin high, not a script in sight because he was a _bastard_ like that. The speech is perfect, eloquent, and full of heart—Jack’s Golden Boy persona at work, and Gabriel does his best to contain himself from laughing at the utter _bullshit_ that comes out of Jack’s mouth because he knows Jack fucking _hates_ the government (the way it was now, at least—of _course_ he wanted to bring change, eventually) and that Jack would also just rather be done with it and drink some hot chocolate. Same as him. Jack will finish his speech, and he and Gabriel will go back to their room and have the longest and greatest naps they have had in their lives.

~

It is Christmas Eve for Jack and Gabriel.

Flights out of the undisclosed SEP location were postponed for later times due to increment weather, and that was how the two found themselves spending Christmas in a quaint little town a few miles off base to spend Christmas in as a shitty sort of consolation prize from the brass—generous by most standards, Gabriel knows. SEP soldiers were certainly difficult and expensive enough to make to be warranted liberties a little more often than every now and then.

It is a semi-rural, semi-urban town—no high-rise buildings or stretches of highway, and Gabriel feels like he’s been sent back 40 years in time. Not that Gabriel was complaining—it is quite beautiful, in fact, these little bungalow family houses and small establishments decked in tasteful Christmas decorations and topped off with freshly-fallen snow. Straight out of a fucking Hallmark greeting card. Absolutely _corny,_ but Gabriel welcomed the change of pace.

Wherever it is, though, it hardly matters so long as he has Jack with him—which means he’ll never get bored, and he’ll have someone to talk and do shit with. They walk around and marvel at the houses and reminisce about their childhood homes and nod and smile at the locals.

Their day begins with, predictably, a meal. Several meals, in fact.

It was nothing short of a miracle that there was a diner in town open for business this late into the holiday season. Dingy diner food was miles better than the healthy, tasteless slop they served soldiers in the program.

In a span of 2 and a half hours they have ordered everything on the menu, two helpings of a dish in some cases. The SEP soldier brand metabolism coupled with being deprived from seasoned food awakened a terrifying, ravenous hunger in Jack and Gabriel—the staff were helpful and very kind, and only just a little bit visibly alarmed at the rate the two large men were cleaning plates and ordering more. Eventually they are satisfied. They pay for the meals, leave a generous tip and bid their server “happy holidays”.

It is evening by the time they finish eating. The ground is covered with a fresh layer of snow and more flecks of white blow gently in the wind. Gabriel has never been too good with the cold. He pulls his coat tighter around his body, his beanie lower over his ears and his scarf higher up his face. Jack, in contrast, wears two layers of clothing less than Gabriel. _Indiana boy._ Jack was always more resilient to the cold. His body always having been running just a little abnormally warm—more so when he was enhanced.

They walk around in comfortable silence, enjoying the scenic view of house and street Christmas decorations lit up for the evening and the distant melody of Christmas songs and jingling bells and children’s laughter.

They stumble on what looks to be the town’s central park, filled with trees and bushes and flowers and stone, tastefully strung with fairy out with fairy lights, the whole place decorated with a myriad of other Christmas ornaments like snowman and Santa figurines and star lanterns. Carolers sang by a fountain, turned off, likely on account of the weather, and the top frozen over with a thin sheet of ice. There are, surprisingly, people still out and about. Gabriel realizes why when he sees the little signboard announcing a fireworks display in—he quickly checks his watch—ten minutes from now.

“Fireworks? You wanna go see the fireworks?” He guesses immediately, of course.

“’Course I do. It’s the holidays. Fireworks are nice.” Gabriel does not mention how nice it would be to see, for once, bright sparkling lights that weren’t followed by death and destruction. Gabriel liked fireworks. He wasn’t going to let the war take that from him.

“Okay.” Jack says, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and they continue to walk in companionable silence, admiring the decorations. A few paces in they reach what appears to be the heart of the park— _heart_ being the most appropriate term as this part is labeled _“lovers’ lane”_ , complete with heart-shaped arcs over the strip, _more_ heart-shaped Christmas ornaments and pink, red and white lights. More text is written underneath the “lovers’ lane” sign, something about wishes coming true for couples who walked through and threw coins into the wishing well at the end of the strip. This part of the park is, unsurprisingly, filled with teenage couples. Gabriel snorts to himself and shakes his head. He begins to walk away and go around a different route bypassing this _lane_ so they can get around to the part for watching the fireworks display without having to go through this one. Jack tugs at his sleeve, roughly pulling him back.

“Let’s go through here.” Jack declares, dead-serious. Gabriel frowns, squinting at Jack.

“ _Bullshit._ ”

“No I’m serious Gabe let’s go through here.”

“Why.”

“ _Why not._ ” Gabriel lets out a grunt of irritation, though there is no real bite to it.

“Come on Mr. Broodmaster, it’s _romantic._ ” Jack eggs on and Gabriel really wishes he didn’t joke about shit like this. He shakes his head and starts walking ahead of Jack, footsteps heavy on the cobblestone with his shoulders hunched and his arms folded in front of him. Jack roughly tugs at his coat _again_ and pulls him back.

“ _Ah, ah, ah—_ ”

“ _What._ ”

“Gotta do it right or the wishes won’t come true.” Gabriel turns around and there’s that shit-eating grin on Jack’s face that Gabriel more often hates than he doesn’t because he knows it means Jack is up to no good. Jack puts his hand up, wiggling his ungloved fingers in a way that makes it unmistakably obvious what he wants and _Gabriel really wishes he didn’t joke about shit like this._

“You _chicken?_ ” Jack challenges. Gabriel briefly considers kicking his perfect teeth in and dislocating his jaw.

What was he gonna do, _say no_?

Gabriel lets out an annoyed huff but he puts his hand up, anyway. Jack grins, taking Gabriel’s hand in his and carefully arranging their fingers together, then pulling Gabriel alongside him as they through the lane and Gabriel resentfully tries not to think about how nice the warmth in his right hand feels, and then he tries not to think about how quickly the feeling disperses because apparently this lane is far too short for his and Jack’s long strides and how immediately Jack lets go as soon as they reach the well, already digging around in his pockets for a coin to toss into the well. Gabriel doesn’t ask what he wishes for. He takes a coin from his own pocket, but doesn’t throw it in and keeps it clenched inside his palm.

As if on cue, the fireworks start to go off just a few moments after they arrive at the well.

It’s a modest display—fitting of a town of that size, but no less beautiful. Gabriel takes the sight in quietly, inhaling deep, feeling the chill flow through his nostrils and smelling the faint, distant odor of smoke and sulfur. He looks with his chin raised up, letting the brilliant display of lights burn into his retina and into his memory. He looks back down at Jack, who stands mesmerized by the fireworks, completely entranced, looking like he was enjoying it more than Gabriel is despite being the one to have originally suggested the idea of watching it. Gabriel watches the lights shine over Jack’s eyes, looks at the small smile playing on his lips. He lets that burn into his memory as well.

He turns over the coin in his palm one last time, kissing it as he quietly makes his wish and tosses the coin into the well.


	4. Overwatch/Blackwatch

There are many, many inconveniences that Gabriel is willing to tolerate from Jack, far more than he should be, to be honest, but a phone call—a video call, no less—at fuck o’clock past midnight, just a few hours after he’d finally put an end to a mission that had lasted three incredibly difficult months and he was promised a good night’s (hell, he’d been planning to sleep in until midday, minimum) sleep—even from Jack that was pushing it. Gabriel didn’t need a lot of sleep, but it really had been a terrible last couple of months. But if Jack was using their personal lines then he figures it might be something important.

And if it wasn’t, then Gabriel was going to fly back to Zürich himself in nothing but his boxers, his socks and his beanie and personally pedigree Jack through five layers of concrete for ruining his beauty sleep.

  
After a few seconds of frowning at the tablet, both out of disdain and the bright, glaring screen light hurting his eyes, he lays the tablet to stand against the nightstand and swipes on the answer call button. He runs his fingers through his hair—grown out of its usual buzzcut from neglect—and runs the palm of his hand roughly over his face, not bothering to look at the screen.

“You have five seconds to defend why I shouldn’t nuke your office right fucking now for waking me up at this hour.”

“I—oh, sorry, I totally forgot what time it was there but since you answered and you’re awake now anyways—Gabe it’s Christmas.”  
Gabriel lets out a huff, still shielding his eyes from the glare of the screen. Christmas. He’d totally forgotten. He lifts his hand minutely to check on the time and date on his tablet. 3:00 am, December 24th. Well, Christmas Eve on his side of the world then. Thoughtful, but that wasn’t going to stop him from giving Jack grief about it.  
The resolve melts out of him when he opens his eyes.

Not because it’s Jack (though at gunpoint he might have admitted seeing Jack is [almost] always a welcome sight), but to Gabriel’s surprise he’s not in his office, but what he recognizes is his personal quarters which he also knows Jack barely ever gets to use anymore, because Jack’s waking moments—though nearly all of his moments are waking—are spent either in his office or in meetings elsewhere. He must have pulled a lot of shit to have earned and given himself the liberty of spending some downtime in his own room.

Not only that, but Jack is wearing a Christmas [sweater](https://media.kohlsimg.com/is/image/kohls/3764743?wid=300&hei=300&op_sharpen=1)—just one from his government-level top-secret collection, the proverbial skeletons in Jack Morrison's literal closet, blacklisted out of existence and only few living souls know the existence of. Jack’s living shame, but they’re all hand-knitted by his grandmothers and Jack claims that they’re crazy comfortable. Gabriel has tried one at some point in his life and has made no arguments about their comfort ever since.

“I made you hot chocolate, you know, with the shitty little marshmallows on top that you like. It’s instant stuff but a man’s gotta make do. Obviously, I’ll be drinking it on your behalf but it’s the thought that counts.” Jack sets down two mugs in front of the camera—gag mugs they’d both received as gifts, a generic [“world’s best boss”](https://ctl.s6img.com/society6/img/2jKDlLvrfEMSa5bxNRWh9g6FrW0/w_700/coffee-mugs/small/right/greybg/~artwork,fw_4601,fh_1998,fx_2509,fy_-203,iw_2061,ih_2499/s6-original-art-uploads/society6/uploads/misc/9f1141e082b74338ab66ca9580e8dde4/~~/worlds-best-boss2059116-mugs.jpg) mug for Jack, and the one with the chipped lip that says [“kick today in the dick”](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/F0kAAOSwZtlZ8jam/s-l300.jpg) for Gabriel, a gas station-bought gift McCree got him two years ago.

“I’m still going to throw you down the stairs for waking me up, Morrison.”

“I look forward to it.”

“ _But_. You’ve won yourself an extra ten minutes for the spiritual hot chocolate. More importantly why are you in your room, on Christmas, instead of out there with everyone else?” Gabriel knows most of the people on base have probably gone home for the holidays, but there was bound to be small festivities for the people who had to be stuck with the work.

“I can’t wear this sweater in front of them, but I can’t not wear the new sweater.” A pause.

“Would be better if you were around, actually.” Jack continues. Gabriel huffs a laugh and goes on to get Jack to talk more—tell him what was going on back in the base, how was his family, everything except work. He wraps himself more tightly in his comforter. Sleep is still heavy on his eyelids and he still feels the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones, but looking at Jack in his shitty sweater and their even shittier mugs, talking about his family and what the kids on base were up to and who else was stuck up there with him. Everything except work. After ten minutes of conversation, Gabriel yawns.

“I think I’m gonna sleep some more. You should really go out there with everyone else, yeah? Just leave the sweater there maybe. Or not. Let them know how much of a schmuck you are when you’re not on duty.” Jack laughs.

“Right, you’ll be going home, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” Gabriel responds. They say promptly goodbye, Gabriel lays the tablet back on the nightstand and he turns over in bed. He doesn’t specify a home he’ll be going to, and Gabriel goes to sleep thinking of how home has been the same place it’s been since he met Jack.


	5. Zürich, Switzerland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do me a favor and help me in my commitment to give you the best possible reading experience by listening to a certain song, on repeat if you must, while reading this specific chapter: [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0S8ibKBl3tjRmYbZhGHNhG?si=G26R5a1QSK-KG0y6CwSIjw) | [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FygIKsnkCw).
> 
> Then again if you wish to listen to it for the remainder of the fic, well, that would certainly fit, too.

Near-death experiences stop becoming a novelty when _near-death experiences_ just becomes standard occupational hazard in what you do—which is what _precisely_ what life’s been like for Gabriel since he started his military career and long into Blackwatch, even as commander. After several close calls, the “life-changing”, “eye-opening” aspect of it really stops making an impact and Gabriel has come to accept that when he goes, he goes.

Gabriel, for years, always thought a near-death experience was what would finally push him into that _carpe diem_ mindset he’d need to churn up the guts to tell Jack how he really felt about him—but fifteen years and enough near-death experiences for him to have lost count, that shock of renewed purpose had still yet to hit him. Apparently not even the constant and ever-present threat of death could cure Gabriel Reyes of emotional constipation.

Bordering on the sixteenth year, however, it finally hits him—and it wasn’t even a _near-death experience._ The alleged _cataclysmic event_ is, in fact, nowhere near that thrilling.

It happens where and when Gabriel least expects it: late in the evening in Jack’s office, with Jack having unceremoniously—likely accidentally—passed out on his desk, the meat of his cheek pressed against the frosted glass surface of the table, a thin, clear line of drool dribbling out of the corner of his slightly-ajar mouth glistening in the dim amber lights of his office. A truly picturesque and dignified look befitting of the mighty and handsome Strike Commander John Francis Morrison of Overwatch.

To Jack’s credit though, he may let his guard down on occasion for a much-needed power nap, he had all of his senses and reflexes intact, evident by the way he bolts up and out of his position when Gabriel enters the room—the sound of the hydraulic door barely a soft hiss and his footsteps light, but enough to wake Jack up, anyway. 

Though the smell wafting from the plate on Gabriel’s hand might have given his presence away. Jack has a keen sense of smell, even in his sleep. Gabriel likens him to a truffle pig.

Jack’s eyes stop quickly surveying the room and his shoulders loosen, the act of his brain going from high-alert to relaxed as register the familiar shape and form of Gabriel visible in his body language. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes an exaggerated inhale, puffing his chest out and groaning softly as he exhales the air back out.

“Please tell me that’s for me.” Gabriel lays the plate and glass in front of Jack without dignifying him with an answer, taking a couch for himself in a corner of the room to let Jack have his meal. It’s always a safe assumption to make that Jack skipped a meal, and even if he didn’t, it’s also a safe assumption to make that he has space left in his stomach for multiple meals. Jack takes off his blue duster and hangs it over the backrest of his chair, then he carefully rolls his shirtsleeves up his forearm.

It was a relatively simple plate: an omelet with tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, a bit of ham and cheese, and French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar on the side—common foods, but Jack eats it like a starved man presented with a five-star meal. Jack has a palette about as refined as a trashcan and an eating capacity of an entire dumpster—so much that Gabriel worries he genuinely can’t distinguish between good food and slop—but he likes to think Jack devours his cooking because is good, anyway.

Not that he needs the validation. Gabriel prides himself a good cook—trained rigorously by his mother and his grandmother since childhood. Gabriel loves cooking. When he has the time and energy he sometimes goes to the pantry and fixes meals based on whatever he finds there lying around. He finds that the mechanical motions of food preparation and having to come up with recipes are some of the very few things that still have the ability to get him to unwind and think less about job-related things. He usually cooks in bulk, enough to feed the Blackwatch boys. Everyone knows Commander Reyes’ cooking is good. He makes food especially for Jack because he likes cooking anyway and because Jack can’t be bothered to fend for his basic needs. Gabriel knows there’s more to it, but he tells himself that that’s why he keeps doing it despite Jack having an entire mess hall and a literal army of assistants to do that for him.

It hits Gabriel then, as he lays back on the cushions of Jack’s nice-to-look-at but otherwise shitty office couch, watching the light shine on the white hairs on Jack’s temple, watching the other man lick olive oil off his fingers and blissfully unaware of the powdered sugar on his chin and the bit of tomato on the corner of his mouth, watching him mop off dregs of juices and seasoning on his plate with a piece of bread. It hits Gabriel forcefully—so squarely in the center of his chest he almost physically feels himself being thrown across the room, almost physically feels the air being pulled directly out of his lungs.

He thinks he might tell Jack. _Should_ tell Jack, an option he hasn’t considered in roughly a decade, but in this moment he thinks it might not be so bad spending a lifetime taking care of Jack—there wasn’t much of it left, after all, he was pushing past forty. Although taking care of Jack has largely been a part of his job for years now, his poor, dumb heart knows there’s more he’s been holding out on giving, more he could give _if_ Jack was accepting.

Gabriel surprises himself when his brain quickly comes up with the answer _“life goes on”_ when he confronts himself with the possibility that Jack might not reciprocate.

But. _But._ As long as the proposition was out there. Jack might not feel the same way, but Gabriel is nothing if not a man of action—and patient, contrary to popular belief, and he’s spent too long feeling the way he does about Jack to not be willing to put in the work to make him feel the same, if Jack was open to it. _You don’t have to love me back, but if you’ll let me, I can do my best to make you._

The best case scenario would be Jack admitting he’s felt similarly—they were best friends, after all—or he was open to the idea of something more, or he could politely decline Gabriel’s advances and Gabriel would smile at him and say “alright, Jack”—then he could stop holding out that particular flame for Jack, lick his wounds in peace and bury himself in his work. Gabriel thinks he might survive that, thinks their friendship might survive that. They were old, anyways. And no tomorrow was promised, especially not in their line of work. And if Jack was the last for Gabriel, well, that was fine with him too.

Jack finishes his food in record time and it gives Gabriel whiplash—all that thinking and all that confidence in the span of a few minutes, but Gabriel is committed. At least, he hopes the renewed sense of purpose in him lasts. He hears Jack yawn, and Gabriel briefly spares a glance to the deep, purpling circles around Jack’s eyes and the pale stubble over his Jaw. He’ll tell him, but he also knows now is not the time. He retrieves Jack’s plate, assures him he’ll carry it back to the pantry—Gabriel was intolerant of messes—and bullies gently into foregoing work for tomorrow instead. Jack resists, verbally, but only just a little and ultimately he caves in to the suggestion of rest and a little more persuasion from Gabriel forcibly pulling him off his desk by the collar of his shirt.

“Have a good night, Jack. That’s a threat.” He says as he deposits Jack in his own quarters. Gabriel thinks he hears an “okay Gabe” somewhere in the middle of Jack yawning as he shuts the door.

~

Gabriel knows he’ll tell Jack, but that doesn’t mean he knows _how_ to.

Gabriel, at the very least, congratulates himself for not having talked himself out of the idea altogether as he was liable to do—he knows himself as much. Although he would certainly be lying to himself if he said that the thought of coming clean with honest-to-god _years of yearning_ didn’t scare him shitless. But Jack didn’t have to know the “how long” part, depending on his answer, of course.

By this time Gabriel has cycled through several ideas in his head—relatively common ways to confess to the one-sided love of your life, he supposes. A walk in the park ( _any_ park, he had Blackwatch resources at his disposal, after all), a candlelit dinner at a nice restaurant, a quick vacation to the most beautiful places in the world.

They were all good ideas, in theory. But none of them quite appealed to Gabriel on a _personal_ level—it just didn’t feel like his or Jack’s style, and they weren’t viable options on account of their very hectic schedules, and Jack would most certainly be suspicious.

More importantly, Gabriel wanted to give Jack a way out. _Himself_ a way out. It wasn’t going to be much of a vacation if he ended up rejected—brutal for Gabriel, awkward at the most for Jack. He’d like the option to be able to say his piece then just up and go, drink himself stupid in his room if he had to. Part of him wanted to make the occasion just a little bit special, still. He has no fucking clue how to go about this, actually.

~

It occurs to him on Christmas Eve—because _of course_ it had to, there just seemed to be something about Gabriel’s life in relation to Jack and shit happening right around this time of year.

Most people had gone home for the holidays—some to planned vacations, others retired to some other part of the base to have their own little celebrations, and some had simply retreated to get a good night or two of uninterrupted sleep, a gift on its own considering the kind of work Watch members did.

Jack is in his office—mercifully, in something that at least isn’t the full Strike Commander regalia—wearing slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, which gives him just a little semblance of normalcy despite still being in his office and doing work set for upwards of six months from now.

Gabriel makes his way in as quietly as possible. Jack is on the phone with his mother, no doubt apologizing for the umpteenth time for not being able to make it home for the holidays, instead asking her to regale him with stories from home, how is John Sr. doing, the farm, cousin and uncle who, so and so while Jack listens attentively, asks follow-up questions and chuckles at things his mother says to him.

There is music playing softly from a little speaker Jack has set up on one corner of the room.

_Only you can make all this world seem right_

_Only you can make the darkness bright_

It’s one of the things he and Jack 100% agree on—they’re both suckers for oldies, the really old shit from way back when in human history. Jack got it from his mother and Gabriel got it from _his_ mother. Gabriel knows this one. It’s the original recording by The Platters. He likes this one, could sing along to it if he wanted. Jack turns his back from looking out the window as he registers Gabriel’s presence in the room. Gabriel stands up from his seat as he mouths along to the words now, approaching Jack slowly while he pretends to put on a singing performance.

_Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do_

_And fill my heart with love for only you_

That gets a smile out of Jack. He holds a finger up, gesturing for Gabriel to wait as he wraps up the phone call with his mother. It only encourages Gabriel, he moves on from mouthing the words to outright singing—he _knows_ he’s a good singer—adding more feeling to it, exaggerating his facial expressions as he belts the notes out and makes sweeping gestures with his hands like he was singing for an audience. Gabriel had underestimated the full extent of his good mood. It feels like it’s been a decade since the last time he messed around with Jack like this. Maybe he isn’t too old, after all.

_Only you can make all this change in me_

_For it's true, you are my destiny_

He’s waltzed all the way in front of Jack by the time Jack says goodbye to his mother. Jack slides his phone into the side-pocket of his pants and folds his arms over his chest.

“Gabe.” He says, still smiling while Gabriel continues to sing along to the song. Gabriel lets the lyrics sink in—he looks at Jack, the smile on his face, the warm office light making his eyes shine a different kind of blue, and immediately his head comes up with vivid images where he could just take Jack’s hand, spin him around in a slow circle and kiss him at the stroke of midnight. This is the exact moment where it occurs to him: it’s now or never.

Gabriel stops singing, his face drops into something more somber, his smile is small and is only given away by the rising of his cheeks, the rest of it covered by the underbrush of his beard. His brows soften, and his eyes meet Jack’s, searching. There’s a question on Jack’s face, but he stands deathly still when Gabriel lays a calloused palm lightly against his cheek.

_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do_   
  


He won’t do anything without permission, however. The words are right at the tip of his mouth—he’s rehearsed this moment again and again in his head. He knows what he wants to say.

_You're my dream come true, my one and only you_

“Jack—”

Faster by the fraction of a second, Gabriel hears the bombs first before they go off.

_Only you can make this change in me_

The world feels slower then—much, much, _just like in the movies—_ his senses kicking into high-alert and adrenaline rushing into his systems as smoke and flames enter the room and debris only just narrowly missing slicing Gabriel’s throat open, the force knocking him down. He assesses the damage—there’s blood flowing out in gushing torrents from cuts on his head, painting his vision red. Dislocated shoulder. Sprained ankle, a piece of metal lodged on his shin. Broken ribs, probably a punctured lung. He does not feel the pain yet, but he certainly will later. Jack is unconscious, body draped against one of the chairs in his office, blood flowing freely from his temple where a piece of concrete flew and hit him in the head. Gabriel sees the slow but unmistakable rise-and-fall of his chest—Jack is breathing, still. That’s all Gabriel needs.

_For it's true, you are my destiny_

Gabriel screams and gasps for air as he forcibly pulls himself up on his feet, the pain coming to him _sooner_ rather than _later._ But Gabriel has suffered worse than this. He gives himself a few seconds to breathe, and it takes all of his strength to lift and throw Jack’s desk with enough force to fully shatter the glass and provide an exit.

_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do_

Gabriel hears the second set of bombs go off. He apparently has enough to strength left to push Jack out of the window. Gabriel is about to follow when the ceiling collapses on top of him and a metal rebar skewers him right in the middle of his chest.

_You're my dream come true, my one and only you_

Gabriel Reyes dies two minutes before Christmas day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm so sorry._


	6. +1: Somewhere in Dorado, Mexico—Present Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue in Filipino and Filipino foods frequently pop up in this chapter, but I've added the translation directly underneath the dialogue so you don't have to scroll all the way down the end notes to figure out what's being said. :-) Links to the mentioned food are within the fic as well if you're curious to know what they look like, except for one: lechon, one of the more popular foods we have. I chose not to link a photo of it in case I have readers sensitive to animals in food presentation. Otherwise it's all good. Cultural notes at the end of the chapter, too, if it's something you'd like to know more of after reading this fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy. :)

Jack wasn’t supposed to know who he is.

Rather, _Soldier: 76_ wasn’t supposed to know who he is.

Reaper, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was the moment the vigilante hero-not-hero had made a body count for himself enough to garner enough attention from important people and important groups—the goddamn number on his back was a painted target if he ever did see it, if the obnoxious color scheme wasn’t enough of an eyesore are it were. _76._ His fucking designated soldier number.

Then again, Reaper supposes, everyone that knows about the number (himself included) is dead.

Reaper made sure of that, after all.

And if not the other clues, the rifle was also a pretty huge clue. That one was a prototype in the works—was already cleared for field use, if memory serves him right—that Jack never got to use on account of the destruction of Overwatch itself. It was a prototype, though based of a standard military-grade SEP pulse rifle, that was modified specifically for the use of the Strike Commander himself.

Again though, Reaper supposes everyone that knows about the pulse rifle is dead. Which is, again, a thing he made damn sure of.

And here Gabriel was only just getting used to being dead.

He pushed Jack off that window. He _should_ be alive, but he also knew from religiously following news reports that the Strike Commander’s body was never recovered from the ruins, but with an explosion of that caliber, it apparently didn’t seem likely that anyone would survive. Seeing him back in action stirs conflicting feelings in Gabriel. His blood runs hot at the thought of Jack—confirmed _alive,_ when Gabriel had deemed best to assume the worst despite knowing firsthand what had happened and what he’d done that day—on active duty again, though it’s on _his_ terms now, and it wasn’t hard to figure out (especially not with Reaper’s resources) that Jack was on the same warpath as Gabriel, having rooted out the corruption that led to the end of, first, Blackwatch, then Overwatch—then ultimately to the end of the life of Gabriel Reyes himself.

Part of him thinks Jack is incredibly fucking stupid.

He could have had a nice, suburban apple pie life, the kind only dead men who owed nothing more to the world could afford. It was arguable that he’d even sacrificed his own life for Jack’s.

But here he was, with his big fucking gun and his gaudy jacket.

Though Gabriel supposes he’s not one to talk where flair is concerned. Whether they both did it unconsciously or not, they always were causing a scene.

Soldier: 76 wasn’t supposed to know who he is.

Gabriel had worked too hard getting Talon to buy that the brain-washing had actually worked on him since they pulled his body out of the wreckage of the Swiss base, and convincing them that they worked on the same ideologies after all—he’d worked too hard to compromise his own morals and principles to get where he is now: information and resources at his disposal, just the right tools to get his original work done. Gabriel had worked too hard to make sure the names on his ever-growing list were taken care of without arousing suspicion that traced back to himself. Gabriel would be lying if he said that the very fact that Jack was out there not knowing he was alive tortured him. But this, his work, was bigger than the both of them. He was doing it _for_ the both of them.

Soldier: 76 just had to fuck up and be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Even super soldiers had their hard limits.

This is how Reaper finds him: on the floor, the whites of his jacket seeped through with blood and a hand on his abdomen like it’s the only thing keeping his guts where they are. His lungs are punctured, judging from the ragged non-breaths he is taking. He has a sprained ankle, and both of his arms are barely functional with the number of bullets lodged into the muscle. His visor is shattered, spiderwebs of breaks crisscrossing the surface. He is surrounded by a small halo of light emanating from a biotic emitter, but it is about as effective as scotch tape on a knife wound.

Soldier: 76 is going to die—and fast.

Reaper dissipates into smoke form before he thinks of what’s doing. He reappears beside Soldier: 76, quickly wraps his around his arms before he wraiths away from the direct line of fire.

Despite all odds, Soldier: 76 is on him within seconds, the hip pistol Reaper knows he carries unholstered, the tip of it pressed onto his forehead. It was bullet-proof—but the arsenal of a man like a former Strike Commander was not to be underestimated. He wouldn’t be able to wraith away fast enough, and not even his nanite healing factor could bring him back from a point-blank shot to the brain.

Soldier: 76 does not speak—Reaper assumes it’s because he can’t. Parts of fiber optic glass have fallen away to show one of the Soldier’s eyes. Reaper is staggered, momentarily, seeing the blue of Jack Morrison’s eyes again after so long, still achingly familiar despite the milkiness that now mars the irises. There is a statement there that he recognizes— _talk before I shoot you, what do you want?_

Reaper has to act fast. It is his fault for putting himself so recklessly in this situation, but the most likely scenario he sees happening currently was a bullet in his brain, followed by Soldier: 76 dying in a pool of his own blood, likely in rapid succession. Neither events were favorable or necessary. The mask emits a soft hiss as he lifts it up just enough to show his face.

His eyes are a different color now, irises a deep, radiant crimson and sclera an oily black, and his mustache and beard have more white and grey now than black, but even he knows it’s still the same face, though he spends little time looking at it these days.

He takes advantage of Soldier: 76’s surprise. It’s written all over in the way his eyes widen, his eyebrows furrow, his mouth gapes open and the way the hand holding the gun hesitates and limps lower. A million expressions pass through his face in a matter of seconds—a comical display, in old Gabriel Reyes’ opinion—if not for the entire situation of Soldier: 76 being on the brink of death and the fact that Reaper had just blown his cover.

Reaper surges forward, a cloud of nanites hovering over his hand, which he spills over the worse of Soldier: 76’s wounds—first the gaping gash on his abdomen, which truly was one little heave away from spilling out of the man’s body entirely.

It’s quiet. He’d expected more of a spectacle—this is Jack Morrison, after all, and it isn’t every day one finds out that their close friend of a little over two decades, a fellow war hero no less, has defected to a known terrorist faction—but the air around them is still, with nothing but the low hum of the nanites at work. Reaper has pulled the mask back on, but he still feels Soldier: 76’s eyes on him.

Reaper knows this spot in the facility—a small, small blind-spot in surveillance, but Talon comm lines are neutrally-implanted and, while doable with extreme skill and precision, it was no easy feat to disable them. He signs to the Soldier: _no one can see, but they can still hear._

The other man says nothing, though again it’s likely he can’t. But he hasn’t reacted, otherwise. His ragged body remains still, though his breathing has returned to some semblance of regularity. He has schooled his expression into something neutral yet scrutinizing. Reaper pretends he’s not holding his breath.

He inches just a little closer towards the Soldier, pretending to check on the nanites though he knows they’ll do the job he set them on on their own. Tissue damage was extensive—this is going to take longer than Reaper initially expected. He doesn’t turn his head when he feels a hand on his own.

He thinks it’s twitching and muscular tremors at first, then he realizes the other man is speaking to him in Morse code. He remains still, carefully committing the patterns the Soldier taps on the meat of his palm. He does not think about how the hand lingers there after he has stopped tapping.

Reaper gets up from his crouch. He has to go _now,_ judging by the chatter on his comm. Soldier: 76 will live—the nanites will do their job, and they will automatically self-destruct without the home host nearby to return to— _if_ he plans his escape well. Reaper at least hopes escaping _is_ the other man’s plan.

 _“Go.”_ He signs to the Soldier before he wraiths away, deliberately keeping his eyes forward.

~

This is how Reaper finds himself on an _“unauthorized vacation”_ somewhere in rural Mexico—but today he isn’t Reaper, he’s _Angelo Santos,_ according to the false documents he carries in his bag.

Gabriel doesn’t deny that this is a bad idea.

It was a difficult thing to go completely under Talon’s grid, being one of its most prominent and highly-sought after operatives. He had to pull in several favors, particularly from Sombra, for this trip to be possible with even some semblance of privacy and without arousing the suspicion of his superiors. There was, after all, nothing to do in the little _población_ for him to make a work-related alibi like he’s done when he had personal matters (names on _his_ list, not Talon’s) to attend to.

In defense of Jack he’d picked a pretty choice season for disappearing: Christmas season. Talon had about as much regard for the holidays as the _government,_ but the socialites who ran the whole operation had families to go home to and high-society meetings to attend to, such and such. Jack is inevitably tied to Gabriel’s memories of Christmas season. Something about Jack and Christmas. _Absolutely fucked up._

All for a place—Jack hadn’t given him _coordinates_ —and a date he wasn’t 100% sure he’d gotten correctly (99% sure, perhaps) for a purpose he didn’t know. Risking life and limb for Jack Morrison was a habit not even death could make him learn, it seems.

He fits in easily enough with the crowd, all he had to do was put on sunglasses to disguise the strangeness of his eyes and he looked just like any other stereotypical working middle-aged man from the metro coming home to the province to spend the holidays with his family. Being a fluent Spanish speaker made sure he was able to navigate the place with ease.

It is a picturesque little town. Gabriel quietly marvels at the obvious care that was taken to preserve its historical roots to withstand the force of industrialization.

The town is set up like a typical _pueblo_ in Spanish colonial architecture, with its plaza, church and municipal hall layout, cobblestone streets, Spanish-style lampposts and stone infrastructures (revival, most likely) made to resemble old-style houses made of adobe and _coquina,_ complete with dark-wood double doors, wrought iron accents and half-circle casement windows. The town was a living time capsule, with minimal amounts of technology—tastefully crafted to blend in with the rest of the town’s theme, it seems— and the healthy amount of omnic residents to give away the actual year. Gabriel sees a Christmas tree in the center of the town plaza, just by the fountain, and all around town the skeletons of [_parols_](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Gj0RW9kzjGI/maxresdefault.jpg)of all shapes, colors and sizes, yet unlit, but which he does not doubt will be beautiful when the sun sets. He finds himself looking forward to the display.

It was sometime in the afternoon when Gabriel arrived—Soldier: 76 had given him a general location and a date, but not much else. The weather is comfortable: the sun is out, but with enough clouds in the sky for shade, it’s windy and cool—not freezing to warrant for multiple layers, but just enough for a light jacket and a scarf.

He decides to scout the town—maybe he’ll run into Jack, _fuck,_ neither of them really did think this through, but in no time, it doubles as a leisurely walk. He constantly checks on his back, on his surroundings, on his private lines, but it’s all second-nature that he still has sense left to appreciate his surroundings, going thoroughly around the town and visiting little shops, buying himself something to drink and eat while he does.

The day fades into twilight. Gabriel hears the church bells ring in the distance: _misa de gallo,_ he remembers. It is that time of the year, after all. Gabriel has not put much thought in God or religion in many, many years, but he will honor his mother’s teachings whenever he can. The _parols_ come to life all at once, and Gabriel makes sure to take the scenic route on his way to mass. There is still no sign of Soldier: 76—of Jack—and Gabriel supposes, well, this was a long shot, after all. If nothing comes of it, he still would have had a small and quiet vacation.

Mass concludes. Gabriel waits for the majority of the mass-goers to stream out of the church before he rises from his seat. He genuflects in front of the altar, crosses himself in front of the effigies of the _Virgen Maria_ and _San Antonio de Padua_ —his and his mother’s patron saint. He lights a candle, among hundreds of others, outside the church and makes his way back to the plaza, barely populated, which he assumes he can enjoy in peace and quiet since most families by now would be heading back to the warm and comfort of their own homes for _noche Buena._

He sees Jack then.

It’s not hard to pick him out from the dispersing crowd—Jack was, after all, glaringly _Caucasian_ , of which there weren’t a lot of on this side of the world. He sits on of the wooden benches surrounding the Christmas tree, now fully lit. It’s a modest display compared to the mega displays in large cities, but it is charming all the same. Jack wears red-tinted aviator sunglasses, a coat and scarf. His hair has all but gone white and his hairline has receded farther up his forehead which further accentuates the large scar that runs diagonally across his face, and then another just over his lip. The shape of his face is still recognizable, though his jaw and cheeks have probably only gotten squarer. The omnipresent five o’clock shadow he never was able to get rid of for any extended amount of time, no matter how frequently he shaved, is still there. He’s aged, but still recognizable to Gabriel—still markedly _handsome,_ Gabriel admits in the privacy of his own mind.

He buys two cups of hot chocolate and cheese rolls from a street vendor, tells him to keep the change and greets him a quiet _feliz navidad_. Gabriel thinks he can feel the nanites vibrating uneasily under his skin, rattling in his bones, thinks he can feel something coil in gut and tighten indefinitely in his chest. He forces himself to walk in spite of.

Jack doesn’t look up when he stands next to him. Gabriel does not speak as he sits down on the farther end of the little bench and lays the cups and bread between them. Like cups and bread could put _space_ between them. Gabriel picks up his cup with one hand, pulls a roll out of the bag with the other and begins to drink and eat, keeping his eyes in front of him, admiring the Christmas tree just in front of them. Jack follows suit shortly after. It’s quiet except for the sounds of sipping and the crinkling of paper as they empty the bag of bag between the two of them. Jack lays the leftover wrapping paper, carefully folded into neat squares, next to him on the bench. It’s him who speaks first.

“You came.” Gabriel hesitates. _I always do when you ask_. He carefully considers what he will say next.

“Why am I here, Jack?” More accurately, _why did you ask me to come here?_ Gabriel knows why he came, otherwise. Jack pauses, taking another sip from his cup.

“I wanted to see you.” He says, pointedly still keeping his gaze on the tree.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack asks.

“You know why.”

“I _don’t_ , actually.”

“It’s better this way.”

“Gabriel, I thought you were _dead.”_ Jack says, finally looking at Gabriel. He sets down the cup on the bench for emphasis, with however much emphasis one can achieve with a paper cup of hot chocolate and a wooden bench, Gabriel thinks. He’s almost tempted to explain he was dead, technically, for several days if he remembers correctly. But he doesn’t tell Jack that, and instead lets him continue.

“I _mourned_ you. And all this time you were _out there,_ with _them._ ” Gabriel turns his head and returns Jack’s gaze inch by inch.

“I’m not going to fucking apologize for what I did and what I’m doing. I gave you an out, Jack. I gave you a chance at a _life_ and a comfortable retirement _._ You should have taken it.”

“I lost _everything,_ I lost _you,_ you really think I was going to take that sitting down?”

“You don’t know shit, Jack.”

“I _do_ know shit. I know you’re the one whose been taking out the targets I was after. I know now that it’s _you,_ knowing who Reaper is, no one else would make sense. You know what I know about the corruption that destroyed Overwatch. I know you, and I know you pushed Winston into issuing that recall. And I know _now_ that even with the shit you pulled with _Talon_ , you’re ultimately still on the right side because otherwise you wouldn’t have let me live.” A pause. Jack takes a breath. Part of Gabriel thinks it’s been a while since the other man has had to speak so many words to any one person.

“Let me work with you, Gabriel.” Gabriel huffs a laugh at them. He knocks back his paper cup and drains the last of the chocolate down to the dregs at the bottom and swallows with an audible gulp.

“You don’t know shit, Jack.” He repeats. Gabriel knows it’s not a _yes_ or a _no_ answer. Jack remains silent, finishing the remains of his own cup before taking the empty cups—his and Gabriel’s—and the bits of wrapping paper, stuffs it into the larger paper bag and disposes it in the trash can near their bench. He gets up on his feet and slowly begins to walk away.

“Is that it, Jack? Get me to come all the way down here and for _what_?” Gabriel calls back, raising voice and craning his neck to look at Jack but remaining seated. Jack stops on his heels and turns his head back around.

“You were _supposed_ to get up and follow, shitbag. Come on.” He whips his head once for emphasis. Gabriel quickly gets up. Jack waits for him and begins to walk once more when Gabriel matches his pace.

“Where are we going?”

“ _Noche Buena._ ” Gabriel questions it no further and follows, wondering to himself when Jack learned to cook and when his Spanish pronunciation got this good.

~

Jack leads him to the deeper, more secluded area of the _pueblo,_ down to smaller residential houses and what appear to be apartment complexes—wondrously still in line with the rest of the town’s architectural theme. To Gabriel’s surprise, Jack politely talks to some of the townspeople in _Spanish,_ with an air of familiarity one wouldn’t expect of a man who did vigilante work on the side. He doesn’t comment on it. Jack was always smarter than what he let on to most people. He was also familiar with Soldier: 76’s work. You don’t weed out local gangs like that without getting know the locale to some degree. Perhaps Jack had laid down _some_ roots after all.

Jack leads him to one of identical buildings in a cluster of houses, he unlocks the gate with a key and knocks thrice on the door. He waits, and Gabriel waits just a few steps behind him. They have not spoken at all from the walk to here from the plaza.

“You live here?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Pay rent to a nice old widow, Mrs. Trinidad. She’s half Filipino, just like you. I think she’ll appreciate being able to break out the _Tagalog_ again after so long.”

“Looks like your Spanish has gotten so much better, yeah? Maybe you’ll pick up the Tagalog soon.” To his surprise, Jack looks back at him with a small smile on his face.

“You think so? Took a long time to get there, but you spend as much time with the locals like I did and they made sure to beat that _gringo_ shit out of me. Tagalog, though. I understand the bits in Spanish but the rest eludes me. Mrs. Trinidad says “ _putangina”_ enough times on a regular basis for me to at least pick up on that one thing, though.” Gabriel finds himself laughing, acutely aware that it’s a sound that hasn’t come out of him in a very long time.

The door opens to an old woman, likely in her 70’s, who only came up about as high Jack’s chest even with her back straight. Her snow-white hair is shaved closed to her skull and she wears half-moon reading glasses.

“Mrs. Trinidad this is…” Jack begins, remembering that Gabriel was probably using a fake identity. Gabriel takes over from there.

“ _Angelo po.”_ He says, stepping forward and stooping down to take Mrs. Trinidad’s hand to touch against his forehead in a “ _[mano po](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYE4LSt9TRQ)” _gesture. He lifts his head back up and allows himself to look at the obvious delight in Mrs. Trinidad’s face at the familiar accent, the familiar words and the familiar gesture. She smiles up at Gabriel. She closes the door and lets the two of them into the house.

“Welcome home, _Juan._ ” Mrs. Trinidad says to Jack. Gabriel laughs at the use of the nickname— _Juan_ is Spanish for _John._

“Good to be home, Mrs. Trinidad.”

“ _Magandang gabi po Mrs. Trinidad, pasesnya na ho kayo sa abala.”_

Jack only watches from the side as the two converse, that familiar awe in Jack’s face when he listens to people speak in their native language. Jack always did have a keen interest in languages. It was also likely he was trying to see how much of it he could understand. Gabriel carefully doesn’t use Spanish-derivatives in his sentences.

_“Nob—kasintahan ka ni Juan?”_

(Are you Juan’s significant other?)

Gabriel smiles softly at the elder woman. He finds he can be honest with her like this.

_“Kung pwede lang po sana eh.”_

(If only.)

 _“_ Hmph _. Alam niya ba?”_

(Does he know?)

The look in the old lady’s eyes is sad and serene, but full of understanding.

_“Hindi po. Wag niyo na lang po sabihin sa kanya.”_

(He doesn’t. Please don’t tell him.)

Mrs. Trinidad chuckles.

“Go tell him yourself.”

“Tell me what?” Jack interjects. The two laugh.

 _“Nothing.”_ Gabriel and Mrs. Trinidad say at the same time.

“Well, I’ll be going now. I hope you don’t mind but I barged into you part of the house—I’m glad I did, it’s quite a mess in there, mind you, and you hadn’t told me you were having company over—and I left the food in your kitchen—luckily I always make extra where Jack is concerned, I know he eats a lot—now _go,_ both of you, while it’s still hot.”

Mrs. Trinidad is out of the door before either of them had the chance to respond.

“Come on up.” Jack says. They take a short flight of stairs up to the second floor which Gabriel guesses is Jack’s “part of the house”. Jack opens the door to reveal a pretty generous living space: cozy, with simple but tasteful interiors and furniture choices—but ultimately looks just-barely lived in. There is a dining area and a kitchen, two doors which Gabriel assumes are the bathroom and the living room, a small space which could be the living room, complete with a sofa, an old flatscreen TV and a medium-sized Christmas tree off to the side.

“Looks like she decorated.” Jack says as he methodically flips on light switches, then rushes off to the tree to plug in the lights Mrs. Trinidad had hung around the tree. The tree lights up in changing, blinking lights, and the small star on top glows a warm, pulsing yellow. It was charming, comforting in its own rite.

Gabriel follows Jack into the kitchen. He turns another switch on and reveals the spread of food Mrs. Trinidad promised was waiting for them.

The old woman had severely understated the amount of food she said she’d made: several plates’ worth of food, covered in cling wrap, condensation forming under the plastic, the food still warm. There was enough on that table to easily feed six people—though Gabriel could argue once that his and Jack’s appetite was worth more than six men. These days Gabriel didn’t eat nearly as much. Food was more of a habit to him now than a necessity.

He inspects the dishes closer and feels a fond warmth in his chest when he realizes he can name each food item on the table: a deep bowl of white rice (of course, you have to have white rice), a small basket of _[pandesal](https://www.thelittleepicurean.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/pandesal-filipino-bread-rolls.jpg), _slices of [_hamon_](https://infintyandbeyond.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/ham.jpg?w=584)with a bowl of _paalat,_ slices of _[galantina](http://aphrodite.gmanetwork.com/entertainment/insideimages/1018-chickeng.jpg), [morcon ](https://www.kawalingpinoy.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/morcon2.jpg)_and _queso de bola. _Gabriel spots a plate of _lechon_ and _sarsa;[palutang ](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_IjJTvY9VpM/WZoT33M9n0I/AAAAAAAAA-A/LBsBq1ks5dIj3FHsPATMs8Yk6cwoNB3mgCLcBGAs/s1600/Palutang4.JPG)_and _muscovado_ sugar off to the side for dessert.

It reminds Gabriel of his mother’s and his grandmother’s _noche Buena_ cooking at home. He misses his family dearly. He has not seen them in years, but he knows him being dead is what’s best for them.

“Help me set the table, will you?” Jack says, abruptly pulling Gabriel away from his reverie of nostalgia. Jack shows Gabriel where he keeps his place mats, his cups and his utensils.

They set up the table, working around each other the way they have for years—efficiently, in companionable silence, like there hadn’t been years of separation between them. They sit down to eat and Gabriel quietly says his Christmas graces out of habit. To his surprise, Jack goes for the rice first, dumping easily half of the bowl’s contents onto his plate.

“So you eat rice now.”

“Guess I do. With Mrs. Trinidad, you eat what she gives you or you starve. I’ll eat anything, but I’ve grown to actually crave rice and…”

“And?”

“ _Ulam,_ that’s what you guys call it, right?”

Gabriel laughs as he takes the other half of the rice Jack left inside the bowl.

“ _Oo-laam,_ yeah.” He says, correcting Jack’s pronunciation just a bit.

“Do you know what these are? I don’t know if I’ll eat these right. Should I just eat all of it with rice?” Jack asks, his eyes roving over each plate, wondering which one to put in his plate first. Gabriel supposes he’s off to a good start as he knew to get his rice first.

“I’ll tell you.” Gabriel begins to explain each dish to Jack, what they were made of, what was in them, which sauce goes where. He tells him he can eat the _hamon_ with the rice if he wants, but he can eat it with _queso de bola_ and sandwiched in a roll of _pandesal_ too if he wanted. He explains that the flat, round white masses submerged in salt water are called _palutang,_ and they were eaten for dessert—fished out of the water when ready to eat, and dipped in _muscovado_ sugar and desiccated coconut.

Conversation flows between them much easier from there. Jack is genuinely ecstatic about the food—he takes serving after serving, verbally expressing how much he enjoyed each dish. Gabriel reassures him he can have the rest of what was on the plate, considerate of when he remembers Gabriel’s appetite was like. He promptly tells Jack he can’t eat like he used to, and Jack prods no further and offers to eat enough for the both of them.

Jack tells him about Mrs. Trinidad—how she lost her family during the Crisis and was a retired field medic and guerrilla fighter. He tells him how he helped the town residents earn their liberation from the Los Muertos gang, and how they’ve taken care of him since, especially when he needed to lie low. Jack had, in multiple occasions, had to be under Mrs. Trinidad’s care following several mortal wounds that Jack had been unable to treat himself despite his medical background. He tells Gabriel how eventually, Mrs. Trinidad had decided to renovate her house—too big, too lonely for one person, she said—and converted the second floor to a rental space, which she offered to Jack for cheap, despite Jack’s protests that it was better off with someone else since he was always going to be moving around. But Mrs. Trinidad insisted it wasn’t about the money, and insisted it would be good for Jack to have a place he always knew he could come back to. Jack, evidently, has grown to become fond of the old woman, and brings her little souvenirs whenever he is able to.

Jack moves on to regale Gabriel with tales about how he came about the little Mexican town and what he knows of the people who live there, the people he’s gotten close to—who taught him about the culture, taught him about the language. How here they called him _Juan Mori,_ and that was all well and good for Jack, and that he cherishes the nickname. They somehow avoid talking about the things Gabriel supposes they really needed to talk about—work, the past. To be honest, he’d expected Jack to be a lot angrier about the secrecy and the faked death. Gabriel supposes this is fine, too. He listens to Jack attentively. He doesn’t—cannot, on account that he has _none_ since his life revolved around Talon _—_ recount stories of his own to Jack. Jack doesn’t seem to mind. Gabriel chimes in when he can and urges Jack to continue with his stories. This part of their friendship has not changed.

As expected, they clear all the plates of food. All that’s left now is desserts and drinks. Neither of them mention alcohol. Instead Jack offers Gabriel coffee. Gabriel adds that _palutang_ would go well with the coffee. They move from the dining area to sit on the couch, bringing dessert, saucers and utensils with them to the little coffee table by the Christmas tree. They wait for the coffee before Gabriel teaches Jack how to eat the floating white masses of glutinous rice—take them out of the water, lay it on the saucer, eat with sugar and coconut to taste. Jack seems to enjoy this particular dish as well.

“I _would_ not have guessed that. Why Mrs. Trinidad thought I’d know how to eat any of this myself, I have no clue. Would have been a real learning experience.”

“Aren’t you lucky I’m here to teach you then.” Jack flashes him a smile.

“I suppose I am.”

They lapse back into comfortable silence—temporarily, because Gabriel realizes he can’t stop himself sometimes.

“I thought you’d be more pissed off. And seeing that you aren’t, I have no fucking clue what to do with myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought we were gonna punch it out or something, and, you know, settle it with our fists, just like old days. Seeing as we’re both so bad at talking.”

Jack laughs as he sets his coffee back down on the table.

“You’re right—but we’re not exactly young and spry anymore. I’d rather keep that out on the field, only when I really have to.” Jack pauses. “Who knows, maybe I’ve gotten better at the talking part. Wisdom with age and all that.”

“And I _was_ pissed off—you have no fucking _clue,_ Gabe—I was pissed off when I found out who you were, when I thought about what you’d been doing these past few years, how you actually left me to grieve when you could have just _told_ me and spared me all that pain. I genuinely would have beaten you to death if I wasn’t dying myself that day.” Jack picks his cup up by the handle, takes a long sip. He doesn’t set it back on the table and instead holds it with both hands, fidgeting his fingers only just a little.

“You told me how to go here, anyway.”

“I _did._ I was pissed off at first, but realizing my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me and it actually _was_ you, all that anger meant nothing next to the fact that in some fucked up way, I got my best friend back.” Another pause, another sip of coffee.

“And the fact that despite what I knew about _Reaper,_ you went out and risked blowing your cover—whatever the _fuck_ that was—to save me from certain death. I knew I was pretty high up on Talon’s shit list, but you went ahead and did what you did, anyway. None of it made sense, just that it told me there’s a lot I _don’t_ know. So I asked you to come here, hoping I could bribe you with a delicious Filipino Christmas dinner and a nice little apartment vacation in exchange for answers.” Gabriel, inevitably, laughs. He turns his head to look at Jack now, flashing him a grin.

“I think I will, but it’s Christmas and I’m under no obligation—not even to _you,_ mind you—to talk shop until the holidays are over. And who knows, seeing as Mrs. Trinidad earned my answers with _her_ delicious Filipino Christmas dinner, not you.” Jack laughs, that genuinely delighted deep, rumbling laugh Gabriel didn’t think he’d ever hear in his life again. Jack checks the watch on his wrist.

 _“Feliz navidad, Angelo.”_ He says, offering his coffee cup to Gabriel in a toast.

 _“Feliz navidad a ti tambien , Juan Mori.” _Gabriel accepts the toast and he clinks his cup against Jack’s.

Christmas has lost its novelty to Gabriel years ago, but he allows himself to feel that maybe this year’s is good—he basks in the feeling, the light, airy emotion in his chest he didn’t know he could still feel, burning the image of the blinking lights from Mrs. Trinidad’s little tree, the taste of Jack’s brewed coffee in his mouth and the remnants of sugar and coconut that lingered there—the proximal warmth of Jack on his side. He vaguely wonders when Jack moved so closely into his space.

“ _Gabriel.”_ Jack says his name in its proper pronunciation and he says it with just a touch of reverence Gabriel isn’t sure he imagined or not. Slowly, slowly, he turns his head to look at Jack. He’s encroached completely into Gabriel’s space now, barely a forearm’s length between their heads, Jack’s eyes looking up and down Gabriel’s face that makes what he’s about to do unmistakable even to Gabriel. Jack gives him his exits. Gabriel does not take them. He exhales and closes his eyes.

Jack kisses everything and nothing like Gabriel imagined he would. Jack’s lips are chapped but soft, the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks a rough but pleasant rasp against Gabriel’s skin as Jack moves, moaning into each kiss, experimenting from different angles while he holds Gabriel’s jaw softly but firmly with one hand. Gabriel melts into the kiss. A few more teasing smacks from Jack and he thinks he might kiss back, until something inside him snaps. He opens his eyes, pulling his face lips away from Jack and a slight push against his chest. The hurt and confusion are clearly visible in Jack’s expression.

“I—I’m sorry—” It hurts Gabriel that Jack’s first instinct is to apologize. Gabriel licks his lips, exhales sharply, grits his teeth. He rubs absentmindedly at his temples and pointedly avoids eye contact as he attempts to explain himself.

“It’s not that I don’t want this, it’s—” He pauses again, scrambling for words. Three languages up his belt and he couldn’t come up with a thing to say. Jack is patient, the hurt in his expression morphing into one of concern.

“I need to know these aren’t just some misdirected feelings, just because I’m the only one whose left, in the heat of the moment. I need to know this isn’t just for tonight and that you’re not going to just forget about it in the morning.” Gabriel cranes his neck up, looking at nothing particular in the ceiling. He puffs a breath of air out again in an attempt to rein his nerves in.

“I can’t fucking do that, Jack.”

There is warmth on Gabriel’s cheeks when Jack puts both hands back on his face.

“Gabe, look at me, please look at me.” He says, slowly coaxing Gabriel to meet his eyes with circular motions of his thumb on Gabriel’s cheeks. Gabriel forces himself to look. Jack laughs.

“Gabe, I’ve loved you since we were eighteen.”

Gabriel thinks his heart has stopped beating, for the second time now.

“It didn’t go away then, it isn’t going to away now.” Gabriel’s mind snaps back to the present.

“Fuck that, _I’ve_ loved you since we were eighteen, shitbag.” Jack huffs another laugh at that. His thumb continues to rub circles into the meat of Gabriel’s face, a fondness to his expression that makes Gabriel’s heart ache something fierce.

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Jack does not leave Gabriel to say any more when he dives back in for another kiss—this one slower, somehow softer. There is more feeling to it. Jack holds him tighter like he didn’t want an atom of space between himself and Gabriel. He feels the tip of Jack’s tongue prodding gently against his bottom lip, asking for permission. Gabriel gladly allows the intrusion.

They kiss until Jack runs out of breath, pulling his mouth away with a wet pop. His hair is even messier now, his sweater askew from where Gabriel held him, and his pupils are blown wide with ecstasy. Gabriel’s eyes drift down to the obvious bulge tenting Jack’s pants, and then down to the obvious bulge tenting his own. Gabriel, voice and breathing still ragged, gestures his head towards the one of the two doors in the apartment.

“You got a bed or what? Maybe some condoms or what have you?” Jack grins stupidly at him.

“I’m glad you asked.” Jack holds his hand as he leads him into the bedroom. Jack’s mouth is on him again as soon as he shuts the door behind him with a forceful nudge of his foot. He strategically leads Gabriel towards the bed, pushing him down gently, following on his knees so that he straddles Gabriel. He places his hands over the skin of Gabriel’s abdomen, just under his shirt.

“May I?” He asks permission, tugging lightly on the hem. Gabriel nods.

Jack makes quick work of Gabriel’s shirt, tossing it onto the floor. He takes his own off and tosses that onto the floor, too. He sucks, bites and licks marks on Gabriel’s neck and jaw hard enough to leave marks while he grinds his crotch against Gabriel’s own. He moves down to Gabriel’s chest, toying with one nipple and then the other. Lower then, to the muscles of his abs, then just on top of his hipbone. Jack runs the fingertips of one hand from Gabriel’s chest, to his abdomen, down to lightly caress his erection.

“These too?” Jack asks again.

“ _Please._ ” Gabriel manages to breathe out, only just barely reining in his desperation.

“Thank you.” Jack smiles, deft hands working on Gabriel’s belt, then the buttons and zipper of his pants. Gabe moans at the sudden relief of pressure on his groin, the cool air of the room a stark contrast against the almost unbearable warmth in his cock. Gabriel barely has time to process the sensations—almost _alien_ in the time since he’s last indulged in something of this nature—before Jack is on him, one hand running feather-light up and down his shaft, mouth sucking softly on the head and tongue laving on the sensitive vein underneath. He uses his free hand to put one of Gabriel’s hands on his head, encouraging him to pull on his hair and lightly scratch his scalp. Jack works his mouth down Gabriel slowly, methodically, until he can fit the whole length in his mouth and down his throat. Then he begins to suck in earnest, moaning around Gabriel’s cock like he was having the time of his life.

Gabriel ends up having to pull Jack off suddenly, his dick twitching at the sight of the string of saliva still connecting Jack’s tongue from his head.

“What’s wrong?” Jack says, voice rough from having his throat abused. There’s that look of concern on his face again.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s perfect, actually. But if you keep doing that, I don’t think you’ll be having much more fun tonight.”

“Gabe, I don’t mind, I want you to—”

“Look, Jack, I’m old, and I don’t know about you but it’s one and done for me and this isn’t how I want to end the first sexual encounter I’ve had in actual years.”

“You don’t have to reciprocate, I—” Gabriel puts a finger over Jack’s mouth.

“Shh. You’re not hearing what I’m saying. What I’m saying is—I want you to fuck me.”

The shit-eating grin that slowly splits across Jack’s face almost makes Gabriel wish he hadn’t said anything in the first place. Gabriel huffs in irritation.

“I swear to god if you make some potshots about _top_ or _bottom_ this I’m going to—” Jack cuts him off, surging up and forward quickly to press a chaste kiss on Gabriel’s mouth.

“No, no, not at all. I would _never._ It’s just—Gabe, I would love to.” Gabriel grabs a nearby pillow and smacks it square on Jack’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the idiotic grin on Jack’s face.

“You better have lube, John.” Jack gets off the bed in record time, and to Gabriel’s surprise he actually does come back with a bottle of lube.

“No condoms though, it’s okay if you don’t want to, we could do something else.”

“It’s fine. Nanites.” Gabriel responds promptly.

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” Jack says, stripping off his pants and his boxers and mounting on the bed again to bracket himself over Gabriel’s body.

“Ready?” Gabriel nods.

Jack preps him just as slowly and methodically, generously coating his fingers in lube at regular intervals and strategically using his mouth and his other hand to kiss and suck up and down other parts of Gabriel’s body to distract him from the stretch and discomfort. One finger becomes two, becomes three, becomes four, until Gabriel has to whisper “ _Jack, please”_ to let him know he was more than ready. Jack hovers over him, elbows on either side of Gabriel’s head.

“How do you want me, angel?”

“Like this.” Jack smiles at him and kisses his forehead.

“Me too. I want to see you.” Jack makes for the bottle of lube again, coating his cock with a generous amount of slick.

“Ready?” Jack asks again, as he lines himself up with Gabriel’s entrance.

“If you ask me if I’m ready _one_ more time—” Jack laughs, cutting Gabriel’s rage off with a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, sorry, just checking. Better make sure, you know? Here we go.”

Jack uses his hand to guide the head in, slowly, mindful of the sting and the stretch and carefully watching Gabriel’s pains for signs of pain. It feels strange at first—it’s been a long time for Gabriel, after all—but he forces himself to relax. A few more shallow thrusts of just the head of Jack’s cock in and it begins to feel pleasurable for Gabriel. With enough lube and progressive thrusts and much, much patience, Jack finally manages to buries himself in Gabriel down to the hilt. Jack straightens his back, looking down and fondly touching where he’s connected to Gabriel.

“Amazing.”

“Jack shut up and _move._ ” Jack laughs but does as he’s told.

“Anything for you, angel.”

Jack starts with slow, shallow thrusts of his hips. He reapplies lube two or three times more before the pace quickens, until Gabriel begins to pump up in time with Jack’s thrusts and Jack can’t help from setting a more brutal pace—faster, harder, deeper so that he’s pulling his cock out almost completely out with every thrust. Gabriel can’t distinguish his moans from Jack at this point.

“Jack I’m close.” Gabriel manages to choke out in between moans. Jack looks up at him from where he’s sucking on one of his nipples. He moves one hand to stroke over Gabriel’s cock in time with his thrusts, and he buries his face on the junction between Gabriel’s neck and shoulder.

“Yeah? Me too, come on, come for me Gabe, please, come on, come on—”

Gabriel orgasms with a strangled moan, spots appearing behind close eyelids from the force of his climax, his hips stuttering slightly as thick stripes of white streak his abdomen. Jack comes not long after, burying himself so far in and touching Gabriel’s prostrate his hips jerk up to meet Jack’s thrusts uncontrollable and clenching around his cock. He can feel the warm of Jack’s seed flowing in him, then out, dripping out along the inside of his thighs with nothing but Jack’s cock keeping the rest in. It feels good.

Jack pulls out. He kisses Gabriel’s cheek before he collapses on top of him, pressing his cheek over Gabriel’s chest. They stay in that position for a while, until Jack’s weight—who was by no means _light_ —begins to numb Gabriel’s body.

“Jack, get off.”

“No.”

“Jack…”

“Fine, fine.” Jack does get off, completely off the bed. “Stay here, I’ll go get you cleaned up.” Jack goes out of the room, naked as the day he was born, and comes back with a bottle of a water and a damp towel. He offers the water to Gabriel. Gabriel drinks as Jack cleans up Gabriel’s torso, then the inside of his thighs. Jack drinks the last of the water just before he turns off the lights and collapses back onto the bed, pressing his cheek against Gabriel’s chest again, his head comfortable wedged under Gabriel’s chin. Gabriel wraps his arms around Jack.

“You remember the day the base exploded? Christmas Eve?”

“Hmm?” Jack hums sleepily against his chest, face buried in the muscle.

“I was going to tell you, even if I didn’t think you were interested. But I just had to go and literally _die._ ” He lifts his face momentarily to look up at Gabriel.

“You remember that one after graduation in that one town where we ate a diner to near bankruptcy? Well, I was going to tell _you_ then.”

“Bullshit.”

“ _Bullshit_ yourself. I asked you to walk through a thing called _“lovers’ lane”_ with me and asked you to hold my hand. I can’t believe you didn’t _think_ I was interested.”

“Well? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Other than the inherent fact that I’m a bit of a coward, you seemed pretty distant and occupied in your head that day and it would have been perfect with the Christmas decorations and the cheesy fireworks display but suddenly it didn’t seem like a good idea to tell you. What were you even thinking about, then?” Gabriel doesn’t miss a beat.

“You.” Gabriel feels Jack smiling against him. He nuzzles against Gabriel closer.

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it! Come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ventiskull), or leave a comment here, that would be great.
> 
> Cultural Notes:  
> 
> 
> 1) Here, I headcanon Gabriel as Filipino-Mexican. I would have incorporated more of the Mexican aspect of his upbringing but, I've been quite pressed for time and I didn't want to just put in some half-assed google searches and translations here so I opted to focus more on the one I can speak for: the Filipino side.  
> 
> 
> 2) In that regard, a lot of similarities can be found in Filipino and Mexican culture (with emphasis on religion and family culture, some language similarities as well), as both countries share the common denominator of being extremely long-term Spanish colonies. You will notice that old Filipino and Mexican cities look the same. This is because all Spanish-ruled towns are designed a very specific way, in particular the pueblo lay-out, which includes a town square comprising of the church, a municipal hall and other civic buildings.  
> 
> 
> 3) The Filipino national language is a largely debated topic: the official language, de jure, is Filipino, yet it is largely Tagalog, only one of several languages (NOT dialects) spoken in the Philippines. This is why I chose to depict Gabriel and Mrs. Trinidad as Tagalog speakers rather than Filipino speakers. With that said, a lot of Tagalog is Spanish-derived. Mrs. Trinidad almost says "nobyo", an accepted word for "significant other", but is rooted in the Spanish word "novio", which she avoids to keep Jack from understanding her conversation with Gabriel.  
> 
> 
> 4) Parol = Tagalog word for Christmas lantern  
>  Noche buena = term for Christmas eve feast  
>  Misa de gallo = term for Christmas eve mass  
>  Ulam = general term for any food that is traditionally paired with rice  
> 
> 
> 5) Saint Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of lost things.


End file.
